Authors: Weston Ochse
At the other edge of the fort, about six blocks away, stood the halfway house. Although Bobby couldn’t see the actual building, the place was marked by people milling in front of it, talking to the air, gesticulating to invisible interlocutors.
He’d seen places like this before. Like an orphanage for grown-ups, no one ever planned on going to a halfway house, but the courts found it a necessary step toward directing a person’s reintroduction to society.
Kanga could use something like this. Maybe not this place in particular. Examining several of the unwashed characters stumbling along the sidewalk before it, Bobby couldn’t imagine Kanga joining that chaotic queue. But he needed
some
place. If Bobby were to believe the story, it had been more than twenty years since Kanga had been a part of the civilized world. If anyone needed reintroduction, it was Kanga.
By the time Marley came to in the hospital three weeks later, I’d hitched with a merchant seaman. I spent four months island hopping until I finally hit L.A. Sometimes I wished I’d stayed, but without the old Live and Let Die Marley, I hadn’t the courage.
You see, he’d broken his spine in three places. He was paralyzed from the waist down. He’d never surf again. He’d never walk again. It was my fault and I couldn’t face him. What would I say? That I was sorry? What good would that do him? I mean, if he could have been fixed with a set number of I’m sorrys, I would have said them all, but life isn’t like that. There was nothing I could do, and I was ashamed. So I ran.
As they hurried past the halfway house, the people gazed blankly somewhere toward a high horizon. They smelled, and their clothes had become the uniform color of dirty gray. Yet one had jewelry—expensive jewelry. Bobby could have sworn he’d seen the telltale crown of a Rolex on one of their wrists. Naw. Must have been a Faux-lex. Not even in L.A. did the homeless have Rolexes.
Laurie had grown up in San Pedro, so she knew the store owners and gang members. Unlike a lot of places, if you were from Pedro, the Pedro gangs didn’t mess with you. They were presently on their way to meet with the 8th Street Angels. Laurie had gone to high school with their leader, a guy with the questionable name of Lucy.
As if reading his mind, Laurie said, “These guys were regular kids in high school. But they’ve grown up. They’re into all sorts of things now. Most you don’t want to know about.” She paused and gave him a look.
How could he tell her that he’d probably done the same things that these bangers had? Since leaving the orphanage he’d run from one situation to the next, most of the time chased by one law enforcement organization or another. He was far from the nice boy she believed him to be, yet he found himself wanting to maintain that false belief.
“Lucy said he’d meet you as a courtesy to me. He’s liked me for a long time.”
Bobby arched an eyebrow.
She added, “He took me to a seventh-grade dance and stole one kiss, so don’t get any ideas about who he is to me. Other than seeing him at the store every now and then, and his mother at the doctor’s, there’s no contact between us.”
“I’m not worried. And listen—” He stopped and grabbed her hand. She turned to him. “Don’t be worried about me. There’s so much you don’t know. I’m a good guy, I think, but I haven’t always done good things. I know these guys. I know their kind. I can deal with them.”
“These aren’t like the people you—”
“Yes they are.”
“But they’ve been to jail and—”
“Laurie, stop worrying. You’ve done so much for me. Getting back my birthright is a big deal. I’ll never get to know my dad, but at least I can have what he left me. For a chance at that, I owe you more than I can repay.”
She tried to smile, but couldn’t meet his gaze. Holding both of her hands, he watched as she toed the sidewalk. She finally whispered, “Maybe you shouldn’t tell them who your father was.”
Bobby grinned. He’d heard this before. He didn’t mind people laughing at the idea of Elvis Presley being his father. He actually appreciated it. The idea
was
ludicrous, and any self-respecting person would refrain from putting themselves in the position to have to admit it in public. But not Bobby Dupree. He’d bantered Elvis with the best of them, and after hearing his facts, they grudgingly agreed to the possibility of his truth.
“I can’t deny my namesake. That’s what this is all about, Laurie. I’m trying to get closer to the father I never had, by getting back the thing he wanted me to have.”
Bobby had left the day after Sister Agnes passed away. On her deathbed, she’d tearfully given him the envelope that had been left with him as a swaddled infant on their front lawn. Inside was a letter from Colonel Parker that had said it all, detailing Bobby’s father’s sadness at not being able to be a part of his life, information about his mother who’d died in childbirth at Memphis Memorial and who Elvis had met at a concert in Biloxi, and finally about his father’s wish that little Bobby Garon Dupree get the Double Platinum Award for
Heartbreak Hotel
.
“Then maybe you should wait until the time is right to tell them.”
Bobby shook his head. “These guys are straight shooters. They’ll appreciate my honesty. Trust me on this, Laurie.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she bit her lip and nodded. They resumed their journey to 8th Street. The lower in the street numbers they got, the poorer the homes and shops became. No more palm trees. Bare dirt plots. They passed an abandoned Buick, the engine ripped out along with the tires and the bucket seats. They passed a taco stand, a wizened woman pushing a chalupa cart, and a secondhand store where Fernando Valley yuppies were busy loading furniture into the back of their Lincoln Navigator.
When they turned onto 8th Street the aura completely changed. A well-maintained suburban street rolled out in front of them. Postage stamp lawns, neatly trimmed, and fences painted white. The single-story shotgun shacks all sported new paint. Children tricycled down the sidewalk. Old men watered flowerbeds. About halfway down the street, seven or eight young men spoke low among themselves as they stood around two low riders rumbling in a driveway.
Bobby spied the lookout sitting on the porch of the first house. Holding a cell phone on his knee, watched Bobby with a predator’s gaze. As Bobby passed, the young man brought the cell phone to his mouth and spoke several words. When he’d finished, he snapped shut the phone, then resumed watching the street’s entrance.
One of the low riders was the neon green beast that had passed them earlier. The other was a midnight blue Impala. All the young men wore shorts below the knees, and most had steel-toed boots. Two wore flannel shirts, the rest wife-beaters—white tank tops.
An immense Buddha-sized Mexican stepped forward. His chin was lost amidst rolls of fat. Bald, his tattoos began just below the left eye with a single tear drop. His arms and chest were covered in enough ink to tattoo three people. Bobby picked out a large tattoo on the man’s upper chest—
Louis Cabellos
. Then it clicked. The man wasn’t named Lucy, he was named Lou C. Or maybe Lucy was his nickname because of that. Bobby’s attention was drawn away from the tats to the man’s astonishing blue eyes.
“Laurie.
Que paso
, girl,” Lucy said. “This the
gavacho
you told us about?”
The man smiled broadly at Laurie, but turned his eyes to hardened steel for Bobby, who readied himself for what was about to come. They’d test him, he just didn’t know how yet. One thing that he did know is that if he failed it would probably mean his life, or at the very least, some bones.
“His name is Bobby, Lucy. He’s a friend of me and my father.”
At the term
father
, the gang leader cocked his head and stared at Laurie. “I remember you saying your dad run away. He’s that old man down at the beach, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
“He’s a badass, this dad of yours. He took out some
pringao
surfers the other day. One came asking for help, but I told him to get lost. I mean, if you get beat by a
Geritol
, then that’s about you. Has nothing to do with me, yes?”
As he spoke, the others in the driveway moved until they’d surrounded Bobby. None of the gangbangers seemed to have a weapon, but as baggy as their clothes were, no telling what they could produce if needed.
“My dad’s pretty cool.”
“So, are you two tight?” Lucy looked from Bobby to Laurie.
“We’re working on it.”
Lucy stared at her for a few seconds, then turned his attention to Bobby. “Where you from,
gavacho
?”
“Memphis.”
“As in Tennessee?”
“As in Elvis.”
A lanky boy crooned the popular song about being a hound dog, smirking around his savagely out of tune falsetto.
“You have ink?” Lucy asked.
Bobby held his gaze. “Some.”
“Any of it related?”
“Some.”
“Strip.”
Bobby didn’t move.
A crazy-eyed kid with a slash across a cheek flipped out a butterfly knife and pushed his face to within an inch of Bobby’s. “Hey,
puto
! Lucy said to strip, so take off your clothes!”
“Lucy, you said he’d be safe.” Laurie moved to step in front of Bobby, but he held her back with his left hand.
“That was before I found out he was affiliated.”
“How about if I only take off my shirt.” Bobby spoke calmly, careful not to get angry.
A beefy kid with food stains on the front of his wife-beater yelled in his ear. “
Hija la Chingada
! Take it all off.”
Bobby frowned. “I doubt you want a naked white boy standing on your street for all the kids on trikes to see, so let me take off my shirt and show my ink. I come in peace. I’m not representing. I want to show respect.”
Bobby felt Laurie staring at him. He’d never told her about this. It wasn’t like he’d hid the information from her, he’d just never had the reason to tell her. Still, he knew he was going to pay.
The kid with the knife made a move, but Lucy stopped him with a meaty hand. “Let the man show respect. Go ahead, Dukes of Hazard, take off your shirt.”
Careful so as not to make any sudden moves, Bobby pulled his T-shirt over his head. He dropped his arms to his side, the shirt gripped in his right hand. His well-tanned torso held two tattoos. On his left breast were twin lines of text that read
I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra
. On his right breast was a silhouette of a cartoon
Playboy
bunny rabbit with the name
Nosebleed
scrawled above it. Other than the portrait of Elvis tattooed on his right forearm, these were the only tattoos he had.
Several of the Angels leaned in, but none of them seemed to know what they were looking at. Even Lucy looked, but didn’t see anything gang affiliated. The leader finally shouted toward the house. “Pops, come here and check out the
gavacho puto
.”
An older man wearing a starched ILWU longshoreman’s union shirt and black slacks stepped from the porch. The boys parted as the man stepped through. He stopped in front of Bobby, his heavy-lidded stare examining the tats. Took him about five seconds, then he said two words and returned to his domino game on the porch. “Vice Lords.”
One of the gang members whistled. Another said, “What the fuck.” They might not have recognized the tat, but almost all of them had heard of the East Coast gang headquartered in Chicago whose territory spanned the inner cities of the Midwest and the South. Older and stronger than the Crips and the Bloods, the Vice Lords had survived for fifty years and would probably survive fifty more.
“You representing?” Lucy asked.
“No way. I left the life five years ago. It was just a way to survive.”
The gang leader seemed to like the answer. He pointed at the bunny. “They call you Nosebleed?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Cause when I get hit in the face, my nose bleeds.”
“We all get nose bleeds.”
“No.
Every
time I get hit in the face, I get nose bleeds. Stupidest damn thing. Whether it’s a five-year-old or a fifty-year-old who punches me—I get hit, I bleed.”
Lucy chuckled, then turned and fired some rapid Spanish into the house. To Bobby he said, “Put on your shirt. We’re gonna go inside and talk for a minute. My grandma is in there so show some respect.” To Laurie, who still seemed a little stunned by the events that had transpired, he added, “Come on girl, my mother wants to see you.”
With that he headed toward the house, Laurie and Bobby following close behind. By the time they passed the two old men playing a silent game of dominoes on the porch, Bobby had put his shirt back on.
Inside, the smell of baking corn tortillas filled the cramped space. Everywhere were images of the Virgin Mary. Pictures, statues, books, 3-D nail art, even a powder blue velvet painting—all showing Mary in different states of divinity.
Telemundo
was on TV, but the volume was turned all the way down. An ancient woman snored softly in a lounger next to the empty couch.